


Folklore

by LavenderJam



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Angst, Bad Parenting, Bedtime Stories, Chaos Family, F/M, Jordan College, Lyra is a pawn in a game she doesn't know she's playing, Pre-Canon, Setting-Typical Sexism, Tartars, inappropriate gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderJam/pseuds/LavenderJam
Summary: The Master swallowed and his dæmon fluffed her wings. “Lyra’s mother is here.”Asriel’s eyes widened, anger spreading across his face like thick, black petroleum polluting a lake.“What?”he said, leaning forward and banging his fist against the dark mahogany of the desk. “I forbade that. I ordered you to keep that woman away from Lyra. How dare you let her come here?”“She was very upset, Asriel,” the Master said, his expression pained.“Oh, I’m sure she was,” he snapped, his fingers twitching. Stelmaria had stood at the news: now her tail was erect, her ears pricked up, her eyes bright and wild and sparkling.(When Lyra is six years old, Marisa sneaks a visit with her at Jordan. Asriel catches her in the act.)
Relationships: Lord Asriel & Lyra Belacqua, Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter, Lyra Belacqua & Marisa Coulter
Comments: 30
Kudos: 152





	Folklore

**Author's Note:**

> “So, Lyra. You've been talking to Mrs Coulter. Did you enjoy hearing what she said?”  
> “Yes!”  
> “She is a remarkable lady.”  
> “She's wonderful. She's the most wonderful person I've ever met.” - Northern Lights, Philip Pullman
> 
> “Then take her and welcome. She's more yours than mine, Asriel.”  
> “Not so. You took her in; you tried to mould her. You wanted her then.”  
> “She was too coarse, too stubborn. I'd left it too late...” - Northern Lights, Philip Pullman

The familiar scent of Jordan suffused Asriel’s chest the moment he stepped into the porter’s lodge: limestone and wizened paper and honeysuckle. The smell of fresh pine and fecund ice had been lingering in his nose since he’d sailed away from Trollesund several days prior, and while he relished reminders of the North, the aroma of Oxford was a worthy replacement. It certainly made his desire to slip off his rancid leather travelling coat more urgent, and the lure of a clean shirt and a stiff drink called to him like the sea might call to landlocked sailor. 

He sauntered around the Melrose Quad, oblivious to the panicked stares being directed at him from the parlours that bordered the courtyard, and even more oblivious to the whispers that were already snaking through the college, servants and scholars alike trying desperately to alert the Master to Asriel’s unexpected arrival. By the time Asriel had wended his way through both quadrangles and past the Sheldon Building, Wren had been sent to intercept him, the man skittering across the paving stones and almost tripping over his dog-dæmon in his haste.

“My lord,” the butler said. “Welcome back! We did not expect to see you for some time.”

Asriel’s face remained impassive. “Nor did I expect to be back so soon. Yet here we are.”

He’d been foiled by a broken photometer. It was hardly a huge loss – he’d been in the North since late November, and it was now the second week of March – but nevertheless had resulted in his expedition being cut short. He’d attempted to fix the device, of course, but four of the six light meters had been rendered defunct, and while he might have been able to replace two, four was an impossibility, and his repair efforts were soon abandoned. He’d considered ordering replacement materials, as he had done many times before, busying himself hiking or hunting for sport until they arrived, but the towering stacks of data that he’d already gathered and Stelmaria’s uncharacteristic reluctance to needlessly prolong their trek had made it easy to dismiss his local staff, pack up his remaining equipment and sail for home a month earlier than planned. His ship had docked in Southampton at midday and then he’d caught the first airship to Oxford, arriving now with enough time for a long soak and a cup of coffee before charming his way onto High Table for dinner. Wren’s continued presence before him was an unwelcome impediment to realising that vision.

Asriel watched the butler’s eyes flit nervously around the courtyard. “What’s the matter with you, man?”

“Nothing at all, my lord. Apologies for my distraction.” He looked to the side again, and Stelmaria bristled. “Permit me to escort you to the Master’s study.”

Asriel frowned. “No need, Wren. I’ll be requiring a bed tonight, though, so please have some quarters prepared. I’ll take some coffee in the common room while I wait.”

Wren’s eyes widened and he shared another anxious look with his dæmon. After a pause, he said, “It really would be most desirable if you could accompany me to Dr Carne’s study, sir.”

Asriel raised an eyebrow. “Whatever it is, Wren, just spit it out. I’ve been travelling for many days and have no desire to force it out of you.”

“Understood, my lord. If you’d be so kind as to follow me,” Wren said, then turned on his heel and began to walk.

Asriel could not deny that the evasion intrigued him, and so he scrubbed a weary hand across his face and tailed the servant. 

“The last I checked I was not wanted for arrest,” he said lightly, though Stelmaria was grizzling by his side as they entered the college’s main building. “And I don’t recall my last lecture ruffling that many feathers, though perhaps that came after I’d already departed for the frozen wastes.”

“Not that I heard, my lord.” The butler kept walking, the throngs of students parting like water repelled from oil as Asriel and Stelmaria strode down Jordan’s corridors, hearing for the first time the trail of whispers sparked by their presence.

Stelmaria’s tail lashed against his calf. “Could it be the girl?” she murmured.

Asriel stopped. “Is Lyra well?” he said, and Wren turned, his eyes wide. 

Asriel’s ferocious gaze bored into the man. “Is Lyra well, Wren? Answer me.”

“Yes!” the man said, nodding. “No need to be concerned, my lord, Lyra is quite well. She was parading down this very hallway just this morning.”

“Then what in hell’s name is going _on_ today – ”

His booming tone was reverberating through the walls, and before he could grumble any further Dr Carne had stepped into the corridor and interrupted his exasperation. The man’s expression was serene, but his raven dæmon was fluffing her feathers in agitation. “Asriel, how good to see you,” the Master said warmly, offering his hand.

Asriel accepted the greeting with a frown. “Master,” he said. “Care to tell me why my unexpected arrival is causing such distress?”

“Come inside,” the Master said.

Even on a warm spring afternoon, the room was dark, as was the hazard of rosewood panels and carmine furnishings. The air was thick with the scent of timeworn leather and smokeleaf, the same scent that had long perfused the Master’s robes and now followed him like a cloud as he shuffled through Jordan’s halls, wending his way between students and staff and his books in his shabby black shoes.

“I have no patience for this,” Asriel said, plonking himself down onto one of the leather chairs with a thump as the Master settled behind his desk. “I am a member of this college, you know, and I am perfectly within my rights to arrive unannounced. I don’t appreciate being herded around like a _dog_ and having my questions ignored.”

“I know, Asriel.”

“So? What is it?”

The Master swallowed and his dæmon fluffed her wings. “Lyra’s mother is here.”

Asriel’s eyes widened, anger spreading across his face like thick, black petroleum polluting a lake. _“What?”_ he said, leaning forward and banging his fist against the dark mahogany of the desk. “I forbade that. I ordered you to keep that woman away from Lyra. How _dare_ you let her come here?”

“She was very upset, Asriel,” the Master said, his expression pained.

“Oh, I’m sure she was,” he snapped, his fingers twitching. Stelmaria had stood at the news: now her tail was erect, her ears pricked up, her eyes bright and wild and sparkling.

The Master sighed. “She was truly distraught, I promise you. Weeping. Asking me what right I had to keep her from her own daughter.”

“What right does _she_ have to come here?” he said, getting to his feet and beginning to pace before the older man’s desk. “You should have turned her away. I know better than anyone how persuasive she can be, but I thought you a stronger man than that.”

The Master gave Asriel a look that bordered on pity, and he resisted the urge to growl. “She is Lyra’s mother, and you may think me weak if you wish, but I do believe her distress was sincere. And,” the Master added bashfully, “we did not think you’d be back for many weeks.”

“That’s no better,” Asriel barked, Stelmaria’s teeth now bared. “It is worse that you would disobey my orders with the explicit intention of lying to me about it.”

The raven squawked. “Don’t forget yourself, Asriel,” the Master warned, his brow furrowing.

Asriel leaned over the desk. “Where are they?” he demanded. Then his eyes widened. “You didn’t let her take Lyra out of the college, did you? They’ll be a hundred miles away by now.”

“No! No, of course not.” The Master stared at Asriel. “Lyra has been with us for six years, and not once have I let her come to harm. I have no intention of starting now.”

“If you meant that, you’d never have let her mother through your doors,” Asriel snapped. _“Where are they?”_

“They’re having tea in the common room. But Asriel – ”

Asriel didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, because he’d already stalked out of the Master’s study and was ploughing down the corridor like a missile locked to a target.

As he hurtled down the staircase towards the common room, his chest thrumming, both with rage and other emotions that he didn’t care to dwell on, he tried to recall the last time he’d laid eyes on her. He supposed it had been the previous summer, a ball in London, but he couldn’t be certain: at this point, their haphazard, fervent trysts had become a single, ceaseless blur of anger and soft flesh and rough touches, adrift in space and time as far as his hippocampus was concerned. He tried to recall the event, what they had talked about, what she had said, but his recollections did not include much talking.

“Did she ask about Lyra?” Asriel said to Stelmaria as they prowled through the college.

“She has never asked about Lyra.”

Upon arriving at the common room’s entrance, he flung open the door with such force that it slammed against the opposite wall, and strode in.

Marisa and Lyra were sitting beside each other on the plush sofa by the window, an antique tea set in front of them, cream china edged with rose, and Lyra was gesticulating wildly, clearly reaching the crescendo of an epic tale. They both jumped at the intrusion, Pantalaimon shifting from a robin to an ermine and rushing to Lyra’s lap, while the monkey almost fell from his perch on the bookcase.

Lyra’s eyes widened. “Uncle Asriel!” she yelled, dropping her teacake onto her plate with a smack, crumbs spraying onto the wooden floor as she slipped off the sofa and careered over to him. She skidded to a stop just before him, chocolate smeared around her mouth, her tangled hair tied back with a ribbon.

Asriel hardly noticed this, of course, because his dark, fierce eyes were locked on Marisa. She was dressed in teal silk, her neckline cut low, her heels made from the skin of a snake. Her hair hung in loose curls and her scent, aniseed and cedar and warm vanilla, had already perfused the salon, filling his nose as soon as he entered the room. He placed a firm hand on Stelmaria’s head, both to steady himself and to stop her from padding over to the golden monkey.

His violent entrance had made fear briefly flit across her face, but the furious displeasure she was now trying to send his way was a poor cover for the resignation he could see infused in her eyes, as if she’d known, somehow, that he would manage to confound her coup. The monkey leapt from the bookcase to the arm of the sofa and crawled into her lap.

“I see you have a new friend,” he said, his eyes still fastened to Marisa’s.

Lyra nodded. “Mrs Coulter came from London to visit me!” The little girl turned and beamed at her mother, then looked back at Asriel. “She said she knows you too.”

Asriel tilted his head, dropping his bags with a thump and stalking over to the settee. “Did she now?” he said, dropping onto the sofa and grabbing a finger sandwich from the tray so aggressively that most of the filling ended up on the floor. Marisa wrinkled her nose.

“Hello, Marisa,” he said, then shoved the sandwich into his mouth.

“Asriel,” she said tightly. She grimaced as crumbs spilled down his front and he mindlessly crushed them into the wool of his jumper. “Do you have to be so uncouth?” she hissed.

He ignored her and turned to Lyra, who was standing before them, a smile plastered on her face. “Are you well, child?”

Lyra nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”

Marisa winced at the moniker. “Lyra was just telling me about her… _escapades_ with the local children. What was it, dear? A scuffle in the gardens?”

Lyra nodded. “We snuck ’em in and then threw apples at ’em. I climbed to the top of the biggest tree,” she pointed out of the window at an oak tree, which must have been twenty metres tall, “and threw my apples down like bombs.”

“And did you win this fight?” Asriel asked, and Marisa glared at him.

“Yes!”

Asriel nodded. “Good.” Then he reached for Marisa’s teacup and brought the drink to his lips before she had time to react.

“Asriel – ”

His petty satisfaction was short-lived, however, because the beverage wasn’t tea at all, but hot chocolatl. He grimaced. “This is disgusting,” he said, placing the cup back onto the table with a clatter. “How much sugar did you put in that?”

“I like it,” Lyra said, fidgeting now as she stood before them, the only space on the sofa a small gap between Marisa and Asriel. “It’s so yummy.”

“It was my favourite treat when I was a child,” Marisa said sweetly, refilling Lyra’s cup, and Asriel felt a stab in his chest. He resisted the urge to rub at his breastbone, a desperate attempt to chase the sensation away.

After she’d gently placed the teapot back onto the wooden table, Marisa picked up a truffle from the highest tier of the cake stand and placed it delicately on her tongue, then broke the chocolatl’s hard outer shell with an audible crack. Asriel felt saliva flood his mouth. Stelmaria was sat rigid beside him, her emerald eyes bolted on the golden monkey in Marisa’s lap.

Marisa reached forward and used her napkin to wipe the rim of her cup, then brought the drink to her lips, letting out a contented hum as she sipped the rich, sweet milk. Lyra was quick to do the same, even wiping the rim of her own teacup. As Asriel’s eyes flitted between the two of them, Lyra mirroring Marisa’s every move and gazing upon the woman with adoration, he felt his pulse quicken, as if he were the subject of a cruel magic trick, where the dazzling assistant has just realised that they are actually about to get sawn in half.

Marisa patted the space between them. “Would you like to sit, darling? Your _uncle_ appears to have taken your seat.”

Lyra looked warily at Asriel. The gap between the two of them was narrow, and she’d never sat so close to him; she’d almost be nestled into his side if she squeezed into the small spot.

“Alright,” he said gruffly, pushing himself up and dragging over an ornate armchair to sit in instead, Stelmaria shooting him an exasperated look as he did so. As soon as he was sitting across from them, Lyra now installed back in her original spot beside her mother, Asriel felt grateful for the ignorance of children: no one with advanced cognitive abilities could have looked upon the pair and had any doubt that they were mother and daughter. They had the same arched eyebrows, the same haughty, imperious glare, the same button noses that they liked to wrinkle when he’d displeased them. He felt himself begin to sweat, though he fought the urge to pull at his collar, because the golden monkey was watching him like a cat about to pounce, his black eyes searching Asriel’s frame for any hint of discomfort.

“So, Asriel,” Marisa said, reaching for another truffle, “Lyra – and the Master, I should add – told me that you were adventuring in the North.” She gave him a fierce, frustrated smile. “And yet, here you are.”

“Did you bring me a present?” Lyra piped up, wiping the chocolatl off her face with the back of her hand.

Marisa tsked lightly, picking up a napkin and cleaning the sticky smear from Lyra’s skin. “Does your uncle bring your presents often?” she asked.

Lyra nodded. “For my last birthday, he gave me a Tartar knife! With all the drawings on it and everything.”

Marisa stroked the little girl’s chin. “A replica? Well, wasn’t that kind of him.”

“It was a real knife!” she said, looking over to Asriel for confirmation. 

Marisa faltered. “Did you – did you give her knife as a birthday present?” she asked, her eyes wide.

Truth be told, he couldn’t remember giving the girl anything for her last birthday. “Of course not,” he bluffed, shooting Lyra a stern look.

The girl’s mouth hung open. “You did! It has whales on it.” She turned to Marisa. “I en’t lying! It’s in my room.”

The mention of the carvings jarred his memory. He suddenly recalled slipping the girl a little dagger last year, after arriving at Jordan on her birthday, of all days, with nothing else to offer her. He’d won it from a Tartar after a scuffle in Saariselkä, its ivory handle carved to look like an arctic oceanscape, the bone dotted with whales and king crabs and icebergs. “Oh yes,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Lyra to avoid the heat of Marisa’s furious gaze. “So I did.”

Lyra turned to her mother. “I love it.”

Marisa could only stare at them both. “And what,” she said, after a beat, her voice harsher now, “did you bring her this time, I wonder? A gas pistol? A cliff-ghast to keep as a pet?”

He ignored her. “I don’t have anything for you, Lyra. My plans changed at short notice and I didn’t have time.”

That piqued Marisa’s interest. “Oh?”

“A broken photometer,” he said, picking up another finger sandwich and gulping it down in one bite. “I could have waited for replacement parts to arrive, but something told me that I was needed back in Oxford.”

“Is that so,” she murmured. Then she tilted her head. “A photometer?”

“It counts photograms,” Lyra told Marisa knowingly, reaching for her cup of chocolatl. Stelmaria sniggered.

“It measures _light_ ,” Asriel said, and Lyra shrugged.

“You were measuring the aurora,” Marisa said. He nodded, and she frowned. “Hmm. The last I heard you were mining the caves for geologic specimens.”

He held her gaze. “Things change.”

She nodded. “And did your measurements reveal anything interesting?” she said nonchalantly, sipping her drink.

Her voice was spun sugar laced with arsenic. “Not as yet.” 

“Oh, come now, there must be _something_. I’d be very interested to know. Wouldn’t you, Lyra? Aren’t you curious about what your intrepid Uncle Asriel discovered?”

Lyra nodded wildly. “Oh yes!” Pantalaimon shifted into a snow leopard cub. “Was the roarer loud?”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “ _Au_ rora, Lyra. And no, it’s silent. _Blissfully_ silent,” he said, shooting Marisa a pointed look. She smirked into her teacup. “And beautiful,” he found himself saying, thinking of the months he’d spent on the ice plains, looking up at the swirls of seafoam and rose and crimson whirling in the sky. “In fact…”

He unlatched his canvas bag and began to root around, his fingers brushing pencils and crumpled papers and flint before he found the object of his search. “Here,” he said, passing the photogram to his daughter.

Marisa shifted closer so that she could look too, and Lyra nestled into her side as they surveyed the photogram together. Asriel swallowed and began to knead his chest with his knuckles, until he caught the monkey watching, and let his hand fall back to his side.

“It’s so pretty,” the girl breathed, and Marisa nodded.

“Do you know what causes the aurora, Lyra?” Marisa said, stroking the girl’s arm. Lyra shook her head.

“Well, the Sun sends something called solar wind towards the Earth, and when that wind reaches us, all the protons and electrons from space shake up the atmosphere, heating the sky and producing all these beautiful colours.”

Lyra’s eyes were wide. “Wow,” she breathed, tracing the arcs of the aurora with her fingertip.

“Some patches get shaken up more than others,” Asriel added, and the monkey straightened his back.

Marisa raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

He froze, and Stelmaria laid her head on his knee. “Anyway,” he said, taking the photogram from Lyra’s hands and dropping it unceremoniously back into his bag. “That’s what I was doing.”

Lyra turned to Marisa. “Have you ever been to the North?”

She smiled, stroking the girl’s cheek. “Yes. Many times.”

“Have you fought Tartars like my uncle?”

Before either could prevent it, Marisa and Asriel had shared a knowing smile, remembering the time they’d fought Tartars together. “Yes, I have,” she said softly.

Lyra gave a dramatic sigh, sinking into the plush cushions of the sofa. “I want to go to the North.”

Asriel opened his mouth, already accustomed to Lyra’s impassioned requests to join him, but Marisa beat him to it. “The North is no place for a child, darling,” she said, running a hand through Lyra’s hair. “But perhaps one day, if you focus on your schoolwork, you could explore the aurora too.”

Lyra shook her head. “I want to fight Tartars like you and Uncle Asriel,” she said, and Pantalaimon yowled.

A knock on the door disturbed them before either Marisa or Asriel had a chance to respond, and then the Master was standing before the trio in his robe, his dæmon ruffling her feathers and failing to muffle her squawks. The hallway was awash with scholars heading towards the hall for dinner, a sea of black robes and deep voices and chatter. Asriel’s stomach growled.

“Everyone’s still in one piece, I see,” the Master said, clapping his hands together. Marisa glared and Asriel stifled a smirk, hiding his smile behind his hand.

“We’ve set up a table in your quarters, Asriel,” the Master continued, glancing towards the clock. “We’ve given you the Whitgift suite. And we’ve designated staff to serve you and the ladies.”

Asriel frowned. “What?”

“Your evening meal, Asriel,” the Master said.

“Will be taken in the hall, as always."

The Master looked to Marisa, who was busying herself with Lyra, though the monkey was watching the exchange intently. “I assumed that you’d like to dine with Mrs Coulter and your niece.”

“I would,” he said, and Marisa flashed him a look. Lyra looked delighted, Pantalaimon now fluttering around her head as a vivid blue butterfly. “In hall, as always, as I said.”

“Asriel,” the Master said. “May I have a word?”

He slipped into the hallway with Dr Carne. “You know it’s not customary for women to dine in the hall,” the Master said.

Asriel’s eyes widened. “Oh, for god’s sake – ”

The raven chirruped. “I’d appreciate it if you’d _try_ not to blaspheme in public spaces, Asriel.”

“Why, are the Magisterium listening through the walls now?” he snapped. “Master, this is absurd.”

“These are the rules we follow, a concept that I understand is foreign to you.” He sighed. “It will be the same meal, and I daresay it will be more pleasant for you to eat privately anyway.”

“Lyra eats in the hall.”

“Lyra is a child.”

“A _female_ child. Who will one day be an adult woman. Will you bar her from eating in her own home then?”

“Asriel,” the Master said, looking pained. “Even if I were looking to confound tradition this evening, you must see the issue with the pair of _you_ eating here together, let alone with the child in tow.”

“That’s your problem? _Gossip?”_ Asriel shook his head, incredulous. Stelmaria’s throat was rumbling.

“Jordan is a place of learning. The last thing I want is for us to attract unwanted attention.” He gave the younger man a kind look and clapped him on the shoulder. “I sympathise with your frustrations, but I truly believe that this is the best option for everyone. The main is pork belly tonight, you know, with treacle tart to follow. It’s set to be delicious.”

Asriel said nothing. The Master looked at the closed door, remembering the scene he’d found on the other side. “Lyra looked very happy.”

Asriel sighed, and rubbed his tired eyes with the heels of his hands. “You should never have let her in here,” he grumbled, then stalked back into the common room without waiting for a reply.

“We are to have a private reception, it seems,” he said, slinging his bag onto his back and picking up his trunk. He could see the hint of shame in Marisa’s eyes, and his own gaze softened. “A lucky escape from spending the evening with ancient scholars. Isn’t that right, Lyra?” 

Lyra nodded. “I only want to talk you,” Lyra said, taking Marisa’s hand as they stood and prepared to walk to Asriel’s suite. “And you, Uncle,” she added hurriedly, and Asriel smirked.

They walked through Jordan’s corridors together, Asriel surging forward with Stelmaria by his side, Marisa and Lyra following, Lyra’s hand still firmly clasped in her mother’s. They were walking away from the hall, in the opposite direction to the mass of Jordan men flowing to receive their dinner, and their presence, the man with the snow leopard dæmon, the woman with the golden monkey, and the little girl blind to anyone or anything outside the two of them, parted the hordes of students like a boulder splitting a river.

His suite overlooked the Yaxley Quad and was known to be the most luxurious room in the college; a peace offering from the Master, no doubt. It was comprised of three rooms: a spacious lounge and study area, now with a dining table constructed and laid in the centre, and a bedroom to the right, with an elaborate bathroom attached. It was decorated in typical Jordan style: soft furnishings, plush carpet, the crisp white table cloth dotted with burgundy candles in silver holders. The drapes were a lush red, and there was a magnificent rosewood desk against one wall, and beside that an elegant leather sofa with matching brocade chairs. The walls were dotted with graceful paintings, depicting forgotten men whose nameless portraits were their only legacy. 

Asriel dropped his bags with a sigh and headed straight over to the bottle of wine that sat uncorked on the table and poured two generous glasses, taking a gulp from one as he passed the other to Marisa. She wrinkled her nose as she accepted the alcohol. “You smell foul,” she said.

“I’m going to wash,” he replied indignantly. “I would have done so as soon as I’d arrived, you know, but _someone’s_ unexpected appearance interfered with my plans.”

“You poor thing,” she said dryly, sipping the wine as she joined Lyra on the wide window ledge, the girl gazing out at the sunset, Oxford’s spires set against a backdrop of peach and cream and rose streaks.

He stalked into the bedroom and closed the door firmly, then sank down onto the bed and put his head in his hands. Stelmaria padded over and rubbed her head against his knee.

“What is she _doing_ here?” he muttered.

The leopard sighed. “Perhaps she does just want to meet Lyra.”

Asriel shook his head. “No. In six years, she has not shown one iota of interest in the girl. That’s not why. It can’t be.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Stelmaria said confidently. Then she butted his knee. “Come on. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

“Since when am I beholden to _her_ schedule?” he said, but he unclasped his trunk regardless and retrieved his flannel and razor from within his fetid belongings. He’d forgotten to request a bath and so he simply washed himself in the sink, running his flannel over a bar of yellow soap and scrubbing his body on the tile. Then he applied his balm to his face and began to shave, a towel wound loosely around his waist.

“She always liked you clean-shaven,” Stelmaria said, from beside the door.

Asriel frowned, half his stubble already sheared off. “Now you remind me,” he grumbled, but the artifice was beneath them both. When his cheeks were clean and smooth, he slapped on some cologne, dressed in his last clean shirt and a pair of navy slacks, and sauntered back out into the lounge, his empty wine glass held loosely in his hand. Lyra was in the middle of another impassioned speech, her arms flung out to the side for emphasis, and Marisa looked enrapt, though the monkey was rifling through the desk drawers on the other side of the room and holding his discoveries up to the light for examination.

Asriel rang for dinner and they took their seats at the table, Lyra’s face dripping with glee, her teeth gleaming like little pearls in the buttery candlelight. He filled Marisa’s glass again, and then his own, and settled back in his chair, content to watch Lyra and Marisa converse as their bowls of asparagus soup were served.

Marisa was asking Lyra about what she’d been learning recently, and he watched her frown as the girl thought for a long moment, and then said “um, a scholar taught me about triangles last week,” before splattering her soup across the table as she started another raucous story about her burgeoning feud with Cousins, the Master’s manservant.

Marisa smiled tightly. “Triangles, darling? Do you mean geometry?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Lyra nodded, spilling soup onto her dress as she tried to slurp a mouthful and answer at the same time.

“Lyra,” Marisa said sternly, reaching over to blot the stain with her napkin. “Like this,” she said, gathering a spoonful and gently tipping it into her mouth.

As Lyra began to mimic Marisa, her faced screwed up with concentration, Asriel picked up his bowl with both hands and drained his starter straight from the source, finishing the soup with an audible slurp.

“Asriel,” Marisa hissed, her face aghast as Lyra abandoned her spoon on the table and copied him.

“No, Lyra,” she said, wrestling the bowl away from the girl, though she’d already managed to glug most of it.

“But it’s so much quicker!” Lyra protested, a smooth green moustache crowning her upper lip. “See, we’re both finished, and your bowl is full.”

She slunk back in her chair at the look Marisa gave her, Pantalaimon shifting into a pine marten and curling around her neck. “That is not how good little children eat,” Marisa said.

“Uncle Asriel did it.”

“Uncle Asriel should know better,” she snapped, glaring at him.

He returned her glare with a smile, took another sip of his wine and winked at Lyra. The girl giggled, and Marisa finished the rest of her soup with a scowl.

As the meal continued, the empty soup bowls replaced with succulent pork belly and then plates of sumptuous treacle tart, just as the Master had promised, Marisa and Asriel traded subtle barbs above the table, and their dæmons traded blows beneath.

It began as the pork was served, both dæmons slinking from their spots beside their humans to the dark, hidden space beneath the table, the long white tablecloth the perfect cover for them to reunite while Lyra chattered away to Asriel and Marisa. An onlooker would have struggled to figure out whether the dæmons were delighted or displeased to be entwined once more, for each scratch, each bite, each wrench only served to excite their humans, their pupils dilating and heart rates increasing as their dæmons waged war behind the cotton veil.

This made concentrating on Lyra’s frenzied storytelling an appreciable challenge. “And that’s how I learned about anbarics,” Lyra was saying, as the monkey sunk his teeth into Stelmaria’s haunch. 

“Because you received an anbaric shock?” Marisa clarified, grasping the edges of her chair as the leopard pressed her dæmon into the floor in response, his body squirming against the carpet. Asriel smirked into his wine glass. 

Lyra nodded. “It weren’t that bad. It just made my finger fizz.”

“I see. And – ” She broke off with a gasp as Stelmaria sunk her teeth into the monkey’s supple back, her fork clattering onto her plate.

Lyra looked stricken. “What’s wrong, Mrs Coulter?”

Marisa blinked. “Nothing, dear. A hot mouthful, that’s all.”

She nudged the monkey with her heel, and the golden creature twisted in the leopard’s grip and then managed to wrench her ear, hard. Asriel bowed his head, stifling a groan.

Lyra furrowed her little brows. “Uncle?”

“Yes, child?” he said sharply, raising his head to her. Marisa leaned back, a smug smile on her face as she licked the last vestiges of the tender meat from her fork.

Stelmaria responded with another hard slam to the ground, and this time the table shook slightly. Pantalaimon, who’d been skittering across the table as a little bird for the entire meal, too elated to sit still, suddenly leapt to Lyra’s lap and became an ermine. Lyra began to lift the tablecloth. “What was that?”

Both Marisa and Asriel leaned forward, catching her eye. “Lyra,” Marisa said quickly, “did your uncle ever tell you about the time he met an armoured bear?”

Lyra’s eyes widened. “ _No_ ,” she said, and then Pantalaimon was a bird again, and their dæmons were left undisturbed.

The meal had been leisurely, the table now splotched with red wax as the candles meandered down towards the silver stands that held them, and Asriel couldn’t deny that he’d enjoyed the relaxed atmosphere more than the tedious formalities of the main hall, feeling quite content to watch Marisa and Lyra chatter away across from him, his stomach pleasantly full of decadent food and expensive alcohol, their dæmons’ tempers having burned themselves out for the moment, the creatures conversing quietly beneath the table.

They had been served Tokay with dessert, a bottle of the ’98, another peace offering, and one that Asriel was certainly not about to turn down. As he and Marisa sipped their spirits, Lyra yawned across the table, Pantalaimon curled once more around her neck, his eyes fluttering closed.

Marisa glanced at the clock. “Goodness, it’s nine thirty. That must be past your bedtime.” She sounded bright, as he supposed she thought mothers should, but he could hear the disappointment in her voice. Was she afraid to face him, or upset at the prospect of goodbye? He studied her, but no answer came to him; in fact, he was finding it disturbingly difficult to read her at all.

Lyra shook her head. “No.”

“So when is your bedtime, then?” Asriel asked, just to see what answer emerged from her mouth.

Lyra exchanged a look with her dæmon. “Midnight,” she said.

“Every night?”

“Yes.”

“And I suppose you rise with the birds too,” Marisa said, and Asriel’s lip quirked up as he glanced at her, her cheeks flushed, her skin warm and inviting in the candlelight.

Lyra nodded. “Yes.”

“Hmm,” Marisa said, peering at her watch. “My mistake,” she then said, looking sweetly back to Lyra. “I misread the clock. It _is_ midnight after all.”

“Oh,” Lyra said, her eyes drooping. “I thought so, actually. I’m,” she paused for a yawn, “quite sleepy, I think.”

Marisa stood up and held out her hand. “Shall we?”

Lyra frowned. “Shall we what?”

“Shall we go up to your bedroom, darling? To prepare you for bed?”

Lyra frowned again, rubbing her eyes. “S’alright, Mrs Coulter. I put myself to bed.”

“What?” Marisa frowned. “But darling, you’re only six years old. Doesn’t anyone read to you or brush your hair or tuck you in?”

“No,” Lyra said, her expression bland.

Marisa sat back down, and the monkey appeared from under the table to crawl into her lap. “Never?” she asked, the slightest thickness in her voice.

“Don’t think so,” Lyra said, unfussed, then yawned. Pantalaimon nuzzled her neck.

Marisa swallowed, and Asriel saw her eyes glistening as she gazed upon Lyra, who looked so small in the large wooden chair, her face and clothes spattered with food, strands of her hair hanging loose after having escaped from her ribbon. Sometimes Asriel forgot how young she still was.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Marisa said, and Lyra slipped down from her chair and took her hand.

Asriel dropped his napkin on the table and got up to follow them. Marisa blinked. “Oh. You’re coming too.” Her tone was a perfect mix of resignation, displeasure and surprise, and any goodwill she might have earned that evening sloughed away, soothing water draining from a bathtub, revealing the cold, hard porcelain beneath. 

“You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m leaving you alone with her,” he said, too quietly for Lyra to hear, and Marisa’s face hardened.

They climbed the small staircase to Lyra’s bedroom in silence, the little girl too tired now to spin even a weak yarn. It had been a long time since he’d stood in this room; his last memory of it might even have involved a cot. Now, it contained a few pieces of furniture, a single bed with an iron bedframe, a glossy oak wardrobe, a chair strewn with clothes, the muddy skirts and torn shirts tangled up in a ball. As Asriel’s eyes roved over the small space, his gaze settled on some sketches near the skirting board, where Lyra must have used crayons to decorate the spots where the wallpaper was peeling. He twirled Stelmaria’s ears in his fingers and suppressed a smile.

Marisa was looking around the room too, though her expression was one of despair. “This is your bedroom?” she said, her gaze lingering on the bedframe.

Lyra nodded, flopping down onto the bed, the springs creaking. “Yep.”

Marisa sat down beside Lyra and unbuckled her shoes while Asriel stood and observed, his face impassive. “Where are your nightdresses?” Marisa asked, as she slipped off the scuffed pumps and placed them neatly on the floor beside the bed. 

“In the wardrobe,” Lyra yawned, and a moment later Marisa was helping Lyra out of her filthy dress and into the cotton nightgown, the girl like a little ghost in the billowy white nightie. Lyra picked up her crumpled dress and tossed it on the floor, and Marisa tutted. “Darling, that’s no way to treat your possessions.”

Lyra shrugged. “I hate that dress anyway.”

Marisa closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then smiled sweetly at Lyra as she folded the discarded outfit and placed it carefully on the chair.

Asriel was standing at the end of the bed, one hand resting on the cool iron railing, ready to bid his daughter goodnight and explode at her mother, but to his great displeasure Marisa seemed committed to prolonging the bedtime ritual until one of them expired.

She stood beside Lyra as the girl brushed her teeth, then made her brush them again after Lyra’s first attempt was deemed unsatisfactory, and then wiped a cool flannel over Lyra’s messy face and hands, which the girl clearly adored, preening like a cat being stroked in the sun. Lyra now considered appropriately abluted, Marisa led her to her bed, untied the ribbon from her mane and began to brush the tangles from her hair.

Mere weeks ago, while he’d been trying in vain to fix the photometer, Asriel had slipped and pressed a soldering iron against his hand, the skin splitting immediately as his flesh sizzled. His hand twitched now at the memory, the scar still fresh, the new skin pink and tender. But somehow, faced with Marisa brushing the knots from their daughter’s hair, the girl relaxed and radiant in the weak light, their two faces in profile, the same nose, the same dark hair, the same contented smile, he found himself thinking that he’d happily jam a soldering iron into his palm a thousand times if only this scene would evaporate at once, Marisa banished back to their frantic encounters, Lyra limited once more to their occasional teas in Oxford. He looked away, down to the floor, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Stelmaria’s ears were flat against her head as she sat beside him.

Finally, Lyra’s knots wrangled into submission, Marisa lifted up the blanket and Lyra slotted herself beneath the covers, Pantalaimon curling into her neck as a striking tortoiseshell kitten.

“Goodnight, Lyra,” Asriel said, turning to leave.

Marisa ignored him and turned back to their daughter. “Would you like a bedtime story?” Marisa asked. Asriel paused, one foot in the hallway, his hand resting on the doorjamb.

Lyra’s eyes lit up. She nodded.

Marisa looked around the room, frowning as her eyes roved across the sparse surfaces. Asriel turned back to them. “Do you have any books?”

“Oh yes,” Lyra said, snuggling into her mattress. “Hundreds of books. About everything in the world.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh. About the stars and, um, numbers, I guess, and books in Arabic, and, um…”

Marisa frowned. “Are you talking about the library, Lyra?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’ve read most of ’em already though, I think.”

Asriel bowed his head, a smile creeping onto his face. Stelmaria was inching towards the monkey, who was perched at the end of the bed. 

Marisa nodded. “I see. Do you have any books for children?”

Lyra shook her head.

“Oh. Well, that is unfortunate.”

Lyra’s eyes brightened. “You could tell me a fairy story,” she said, cuddling Pantalaimon to her chest. “Like the one about the two children in the forest who have their dæmons stolen by an evil witch, who’s gonna gobble ’em up for dinner.”

Marisa gave Asriel a blank look, her raised eyebrows a faint request for assistance, but his expression was equally perplexed. “I’m sorry, darling, but I don’t think I know any fairy stories,” she said, smoothing back Lyra’s hair.

Lyra shrugged. “Just make something up, then.”

“We’d be better off asking _you_ to do that,” Asriel said, and a faint blush appeared on Lyra’s cheeks.

“Alright,” Marisa said, nudging Lyra over and slipping off her heels so that she could lie beside her on the bed. “I’ll do my best.”

She looked at Asriel. “Don’t feel obligated to stay,” she said tartly, slipping an arm around Lyra’s neck so that the girl could nestle into her.

He didn’t particularly want to stay for the tale, the sight of Lyra and Marisa curled up in bed together unpleasant enough as it was, before he’d even begun to consider the tedium of Marisa’s attempt at a children’s story, but she so clearly didn’t want him there that he felt he had no choice but to remain. Asriel shot her a tight smile as he thumped down at the end of the bed, his back against the wall and his feet dangling over the edge, the monkey scrambling to the floor with a hiss to avoid being squashed by Asriel’s backside.

A brief glare flitted across Marisa's face before she turned her attention back to Lyra, the girl’s glee unrestrained at being boxed in by the two of them, Asriel at her feet, Marisa by her side.

“Right,” Marisa said as Lyra snuggled into her breast, the girl’s hand stroking the soft silk of Marisa’s dress. “Once upon a time…”

He tuned out almost immediately, distracted by the sudden bloom of warmth in his chest, their dæmons now nestled together beneath the bed, out of sight of the rest of the group. He could sense the golden monkey’s black fingers twirling in Stelmaria’s fur, and then the golden dæmon must have said something that amused his snow leopard, because he felt her chuckle, and he bowed his head and closed his eyes and tried not to react.

He focused on his breathing for several minutes, the wine and the Tokay making his thoughts quiver and pulse in the low light of the girl’s bedroom, and was only drawn back to the moment when one of Marisa’s sentences caught his attention. “And then, as the man and the woman were walking through the town, they began to hear strange noises behind them…”

His eyes snapped open and he turned to look at the pair, the scene no less distressing than when it had first materialised. Lyra was gazing up at her mother with rapt attention as, unbeknownst to the little girl, Marisa was telling the story of one of their trips north together, when they’d been ambushed by Tartars in Siberia.

It must have been seven or eight years ago, the expedition first concocted as an excuse to sleep together away from Marisa’s husband, though its credibility was aided by the fact that she really was Asriel’s first choice of research assistant. The rest of their crew had headed further north already with the bulk of their equipment, but Marisa and Asriel had taken a detour to Norilsk, a small industrial town, to tour the nickel mines and hopefully acquire some lithium batteries, a specialty of the region.

Batteries secured, they’d whiled the night away in a small tavern, the town otherwise deserted in the depths of the Siberian winter, the air outside so cold that even a brief walk saw their eyelashes encrusted with frost. They’d imbibed tankards of hot wine and shared goulash and dumplings, curled up together in a small booth, kissing the chill from each other’s cheeks, utterly relaxed in a way they could never be in Brytain, even when they were tucked away in one of Asriel’s residences.

They’d stayed until closing, no desire to trudge through the snow back to their cabin, but at eleven the proprietor had turned them out onto the frozen streets. They’d then begun to stumble back through the quiet town, the batteries in a canvas bag on Asriel’s back, the two of them rugged up in thick furs and woollen gloves and leather boots lined with newspaper.

They’d been walking through the empty, eerie streets in silence, the monkey shivering in Marisa’s coat, Stelmaria prowling beside Asriel and relishing every inch of the frigid air, when Marisa had heard a noise and whipped round, her every sense heightened.

“The man said that there was nothing there, and that the woman was silly to be concerned, but – ”

Asriel huffed. “That is _not_ what happened.”

The two women looked over to him, the same disgruntled expression on their faces at the interruption, eyebrows raised, heads tilted.

“It’s make-believe,” Lyra said snottily.

“Oh yes,” Asriel said, his eyes boring into Marisa’s. “My mistake.”

She glared back and then looked down to Lyra. “Anyway, the woman wanted to stop and investigate – ”

“But the man knew that the safest course of action was to return to their lodgings,” Asriel said. “Because they had no real weapons, and no idea how many men were intending to ambush them, if any at all. They needed their pistols and time to think.”

Marisa scowled. “But the woman didn’t want to reveal the location of their residence, you see, because then they’d be vulnerable to the group returning later and doing far greater damage. Especially because it was dark, and there was nowhere else to stay, and the temperatures were…” She thought for a second.

“Minus forty,” Asriel supplied.

She nodded. “Yes, minus forty. Too cold to be stranded outside if their cabin became compromised. They’d freeze to death.” 

Lyra’s eyes were wide. “So what happened?” she asked, Pantalaimon tucked in beside her as an arctic fox.

They traded the rest of the story back and forth, to the point where they were alternating each sentence, Lyra’s head flicking between them like she was watching tennis players fight for a trophy. “And it turned out that they had a pack of dogs with them,” Asriel said.

“Monstrous creatures,” Marisa added. “Huge beasts, almost like wolves, with enormous sharp teeth.”

“And when one of the dogs appeared from the shadows, its roar was powerful enough to shake the windows of a nearby tavern.”

“What did it sound like?” Lyra whispered, spellbound.

Whether it was the alcohol or the exhaustion or the fact that seeing Marisa and Lyra curled up in bed together was making him feel like he’d smoked too much poppy, he’d bellowed at his daughter before he could stop himself, mimicking the snarl of the feral dog. 

Lyra giggled, and he saw Marisa’s lip twitch and breast tremble as she suppressed a laugh, and he knew that he should feel embarrassed, but instead he found himself chuckling too, his forelock flopping against his forehead, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright in the weak light. 

“It didn’t sound like that,” a dulcet voice replied, and all three of them looked to Stelmaria, who’d emerged from beneath the bed and was standing before them. “It sounded like _this_ ,” she said, and then released a thunderous roar, so powerful that Lyra squeaked and buried her head into Marisa’s breast. Her arm tightened around Lyra, holding the girl to her, her face pained, but then she saw Asriel watching her and loosened her grip with a blush.

They continued the tale, and as their description of the fight progressed, Lyra became more and more excited, Pantalaimon changing forms rapidly, from an arctic fox to a snow leopard cub to a little wolf. The girl’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling.

“He put a Tartar’s head through a window!” she crowed, repeating Asriel’s latest contribution. “And then what?”

Asriel tilted his head, as if it were obvious. “He put another Tartar’s head through another window.”

“But now the woman’s all alone,” Lyra said solemnly.

Asriel frowned. “She was fighting too. She had a knife in her pocket, you see, and she was using that to defend herself.”

“But they also had knives,” Lyra said, remembering an earlier detail. “Did she get hurt?”

“A little,” Marisa said. “But she was alright. She could take care of herself.”

“Did she stab them?”

Marisa nodded. “They’d have killed her otherwise. Or worse.”

“But wouldn’t the man have saved her?” Lyra asked, looking between them innocently.

Marisa opened her mouth, but Asriel got there first. “She didn’t need saving,” he reminded Lyra, then looked at Marisa. “But if she had, he would have moved heaven and earth to keep her safe.”

Marisa swallowed, then looked down at Lyra. “They were a very good team,” she said. “That’s how they escaped with their lives.”

Lyra nodded gleefully. “Because they killed all the Tartars, and then there was blood all over the town!”

The abject delight in her voice made them both look at her, blinking as if they’d only just remembered she was there. “We seem to have a rather _awake_ little girl on our hands, Marisa,” he said, and she nodded.

“Yes, it would appear so.” She stroked Lyra’s head. “Lie down, darling.”

Lyra snuggled into her pillow, Marisa curled around her, and Asriel let her finish the story in her soft, lyrical voice, telling Lyra how they’d dragged the unconscious Tartars to the town square and bound them with rope before stumbling back to their cabin and tending to their wounds, all in a tone fit for a lullaby.

He remembered them bursting through the door of their lodgings, stripping off their coats, him loading the pistol while she filled the stark iron bathtub with piping hot water. Neither of them had been that badly hurt – their many layers had functioned unwittingly as appropriate arctic armour – but they’d both been shaken, so they’d sat in the bath together for a long while, drinking hot tea and chewing on cured seal meat as they did so in a bid to ease their shivering, then climbed into their bed and pressed their naked bodies together, trading their fragile body heat back and forth until they were one pulsing mess of thermal energy, the feel of her flushed skin beneath his hands the only thing that would calm his pounding heart. 

“And then finally, they drifted off to sleep. The end.”

Lyra’s eyes were fluttering closed. “That was the best story ever,” she yawned. Marisa pressed a kiss to Lyra’s forehead, lingering for a moment above her milky skin.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” she said, then pushed herself up from the bed and slipped on her shoes.

Asriel joined her, the springs creaking as he shifted his weight, and then they were standing beside each other in the dim light, looking over their daughter as she cuddled her dæmon to her chest and went to sleep.

He glanced at Marisa, a brief glint suggesting that her eyes were filled with tears, but he didn’t have a chance to confirm his suspicions because she’d already turned and tried to rush from the room, the monkey scampering down the stone staircase.

If the embers of his anger had been waning, the audacious sight of her running away was enough to return the cinders to a roaring flame in a second. While Stelmaria had been able to slip out and tail the monkey, Asriel managed to intercept her, the two of them trying to barge through the slim doorway at the same time, their shoulders shoving into the two sides of the doorjamb with a thump. They both turned to glare at each other, pressed almost chest to chest in the doorframe.

“Goodnight, Uncle Asriel. Goodnight, Mrs Coulter,” Lyra murmured from the bed, rolling over.

They turned to look at her. “Goodnight, Lyra,” they said in unison, then snapped their necks back so that they were staring at each other again, their faces mere centimetres apart. Marisa glanced back to Lyra, and then her eyebrows shot up, as if she’d been given a great fright, and when his own eyes slid back to their daughter, she took his momentary distraction as an opportunity to slip away, hurtling down the staircase behind their dæmons. Asriel flicked off the light with a growl and then started after her.

He’d often been grateful for her ridiculous footwear choices – it wasn’t as if he didn’t appreciate the way a well-made heel elongated a leg and firmed up a calf muscle – but he’d never been more grateful for her spiked shoes than right now, as her attempts to flee were ruined by her encumbered steps in the face of his great strides. 

He slammed her against the wall of the corridor as soon as they were spat out at the bottom of the spiral staircase, her wrists held in one of his broad hands, his massive form towering above her. Stelmaria lunged for the monkey and pressed him into the floor with one powerful paw.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” he said, flecks of his saliva spattering her cheeks.

She grimaced. “Asriel,” she said, squirming against him. “Let me go.”

“No. Not until you explain yourself.”

“I have as much right as you – ”

“ _No_ , you don’t,” he growled, pressing into her, crushing her chest between him and the wall. He could feel her heart pounding.

“Asriel,” she gasped.

“Why are you here?” he said slowly, with menace.

“Why are _you_ here?” she spat back. “You were supposed to be in the North for another month.”

“You should have known better than to think you could confound me so straightforwardly.” He gripped her wrists more tightly. “It will take more than a few thousand miles for you to disobey me without consequence.” 

“I haven’t done anything,” she said, his chest still pressed against hers.

“Your presence here is enough. You _know_ that I forbade it.” 

“Oh, Asriel,” she scoffed, trying to push him away. She moaned as she pushed back against him, but he didn’t move an inch, a mountain absorbing a breeze. “Will you let me _go,_ ” she said, the faintest hint of panic creeping into her strained voice.

“No.”

She started to thrash. “Just release me and I’ll leave. I’ll be gone and you can pretend this never happened.”

He frowned. “I’m not done with you yet,” he said. “And anyway, your things are in my suite.”

The reminder that her coat and bag were held hostage in his room made her deflate, and as she sagged against him, the top of his thigh began to press between her legs.

She snapped her eyes up to his and rocked gently against him, her breath hot on his face, and he couldn’t contain his grunt. She smirked. “You’ll never be done with me, will you?” she said.

Before he could respond, the feel of her groin chafing his leg making it a great challenge to formulate a suitable retort, they were both distracted by sounds from around the corner, peals of laughter and the irregular thump of inebriated men.

She started squirming in earnest as the group of young scholars entered the corridor, their gowns swishing behind them. The monkey let out a squall of despair, despite the fact he’d been quite happily pinned beneath the snow leopard’s fearsome paw just seconds ago.

“Asriel, please, I’m begging you to let me go,” she cried, tears appearing in her eyes as if she’d simply turned on a faucet. The four students came to a stop, their eyes wide, their chatter extinguished, as they watched the enormous man, the celebrated explorer, holding a struggling woman against the wall.

Asriel let her go as if he’d been burned, and before she turned to the crowd of students, rubbing her wrist and blinking away her crocodile tears, she shot him a look of sly triumph.

“Are you alright, miss?” one of the boys stammered out.

She nodded, glancing anxiously at Asriel, who had his fists clasped behind his back.

“Yes, I think so,” she said, batting her eyelashes as she clutched her wrist to her chest. The monkey wriggled out from beneath Stelmaria’s paw and climbed to her shoulder before shooting exaggerated daggers at Asriel. “Thank you, boys.”

The four young men stood there, looking awkwardly between the man and the woman. “Can we escort you somewhere?” one of the men dared to offer, a brief waver in his voice as Asriel’s dark, impassive gaze surveyed him.

Asriel rolled his eyes. “Marisa,” he said, no patience for her games. “Let’s go.”

She flashed the students another honeyed smile before turning to follow Asriel down the corridor. They were at his door in a minute, and he waited until they were both inside and the door closed behind them before he spoke again. “You are unbelievable,” he said, stalking over to the wooden bureau, where the staff who’d cleared away their dinner had fortunately had the good sense to leave the Tokay.

When he turned around, the amber liquid sloshing in his tumbler, he found her slipping on her coat. “Oh, just sit _down_ , Marisa,” he growled.

She paused, her hands hovering over the buttons of the dark leather trench coat, but then she sighed and relented, slipping the garment back off and draping it over the arm of the sofa before she took a seat. She crossed her legs and pursed her lips.

“Were you _not_ holding me there against my will?” she said innocently. He took the seat across from her, leaning back into the stiff leather and swilling the spirit around his glass. “I merely saw an opportunity to take out some insurance against your anger. History suggests that it might come in useful.”

He shook his head, watching the way her fingers were playing with the pendant nestled between her breasts, the way her rosy lips were parted, the way his dæmon was enthralled by her monkey, who was perched enticingly on the window seat.

“It is _me_ who needs insurance against _you_ ,” he muttered, placing his drink on the coffee table untouched, hoping to keep his enduring faculties intact.

She scoffed. “What could I possibly do to you?” she said. “I didn’t expect you to be here, remember? I came unprepared.” She kicked her bag towards him. “Go on, check, if you want. I brought nothing that could harm you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot. Poor Asriel. So _weak_ to my wiles.” He glared at her, and she let out a breathy laugh. “As if you weren't just using _your_ body as a weapon to – ” She broke off and shared a look with the monkey. “Oh, damn.”

“What?” he said.

“I was intending to ask Lyra to show me the _knife_ you gifted her, so I could spirit it away.” She gave him a pointed look. “But it slipped my mind.”

He frowned. “Why would you steal her things?”

“Because I don’t want to read in the papers that she’s been arrested for murder after one of her many apparent feuds gets out of hand.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you gave her that. It’s so tremendously irresponsible.”

“She hasn’t stabbed anyone yet.”

“By the sound of her stories, it’s only a matter of time.”

He sighed. “She’s just… energetic.”

“What an odd way of pronouncing compulsively deceptive,” Marisa retorted.

“Well, you can’t be that surprised. Like mother, like daughter.”

She sat up as if he’d slapped her. Asriel glanced to the monkey, expecting bared teeth, a hiss, fur bristling, but instead he saw the creature turn away from Stelmaria and hunch his shoulders. The snow leopard leaned forward and nudged him with her muzzle.

Asriel folded his arms. “Is that why you came here? To see if your nature is smothering her nurture?”

“What?” she said. “No.”

“Then _why_ – ”

“I was _curious_ ,” she snapped.

That made him pause, because it was one of the few explanations she could have offered that he deemed plausible. He studied her: she was holding his gaze without blinking, her hands were still in her lap, her breathing didn’t appear to have changed. It seemed that she was telling the truth.

He scrubbed his hands across his face and stifled a groan. There had been a time when he’d been able to read her like a beloved book, each flicker of an expression a chapter title he could recall from memory, each laugh a favourite quote that’s page number was seared across his mind. She’d always been an adept liar, but he’d soon become an adept detective to match, so much so that it had almost become a joy to unpick her layers, her words exquisite poetry in a language only he could speak. Now, he felt like he was observing her through a trick mirror, nothing quite as it should be. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Why were you curious?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

He shrugged. “She’s a child. They’re not that interesting.”

“She certainly thinks she is.”

They shared a smile at that, though Asriel quickly returned his face to its neutral position and tilted his head. “You expect me to believe that after six years, you simply woke up one day and decided to fly here and introduce yourself?”

“Your preoccupation with my motives seems rather suspicious in the face of your continued absences,” she huffed. “Why should you care that I came here to meet her?”

“Because I don’t trust you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You do care for her, don’t you?” she said. 

He said nothing. She reached out for his glass and took a sip of the spirit, scrunching up her nose as the harsh liquid burned her throat. “Well, if you do, you have an odd way of showing it.”

He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Marisa gave him a withering glare. “She’s _feral_ , Asriel. Uneducated, unrefined, impolite. Every word out of her mouth was a lie, a half-truth at best; her bedroom is like a _prison cell_ ; she has no books, hardly any clothes – her most prized possession is a _dagger_.” She shook her head. “The least you could have done was ensure that she was being _schooled_.” 

“She lives in an Oxford college!”

“What good is that if no one actually _teaches_ her?” She swallowed. “No one is caring for her, Asriel,” she said.

“That’s not true. You just haven’t seen it. The Master cares deeply for her, and the Chaplain – ”

“And you’re certain that she’s safe?” Marisa said, almost fearfully. “Living in this place with only adult men for company.”

“What are you – ”

“She’s a little girl!” Marisa said. “She’s vulnerable.”

“Lyra is anything but vulnerable.”

“Do you have to be so _dense?”_ she said, exasperated.

“If you’re so concerned, why don’t you whisk her away?” The words left his mouth before he’d even realised they were forming on his tongue. Stelmaria shot him a look of surprise.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I have no concerns about her welfare. Clearly the same cannot be said for you.”

She sniffed. “You’d never allow it.”

“Since when do you care about what I’d _allow?”_ He tilted his head. “Play the victim all you want: _I_ _know you_ , Marisa. If you wanted her, you’d take her. The obvious conclusion is that you still don’t.”

“She’s a stranger to me, Asriel,” Marisa said, her voice strained. “We’re nothing alike. I don’t understand her at all.”

He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Oh, that’s rich.”

“What?” she said.

He stared at her. “She’s all you, Marisa.”

The muscles of her face morphed from wounded to angry in one fluid motion. “She’s all _you_ ,” she hissed. “Wild and stubborn and filthy.” She shook her head as she stood and reached for her coat.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving,” she said. “My curiosity is sated, no thanks to you, and I don’t want to miss the last airship back to London.”

“Yes, run away, as you always do,” he drawled, getting to his feet as she stalked towards the door. “Do you ever tire of being such a coward?”

She whipped round and he saw tears shimmering in her eyes. “Why do you have to be so _cruel?”_ she spat.

“ _I_ am the one who’s cruel?” He stalked towards her, expecting her to stumble back into the wall, but she held her ground, her chin raised, her eyes defiant. “As if every moment of your performance tonight wasn’t designed to wound me.”

She blinked, incredulous. “Your capacity for self-involvement never fails to astound me,” she said with a sneer. “ _I didn’t know you’d be here_. I didn’t want to see you. I just wanted to see… her. Just _once_. To spend one day with her.”

There was a pause as he studied her. Then his face softened as he recognised the look in her eyes. “Because she’s your daughter,” he said softly.

The colour drained from her face and a tear slid down her cheek, which she wiped away in a fumble of embarrassment. She slunk away from him and sat back down on the sofa.

“She lived inside me, you know,” Marisa sniffed. “I was her first home.”

He came to sit beside her. “I know.”

“I ruined my body to bring her into the world.”

Asriel let his gaze rove over her supple form before he met her eyes. “No, you didn’t.” They shared a smirk.

She sighed, her knee brushing against his. “Do you ever think about what could have been?” she whispered. “If we’d married, and brought her up ourselves?”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “No.”

“Never? Not even once?”

He turned to her, their faces mere inches apart, and slammed his fist on the coffee table. “ _Don’t_ ,” he said.

She kissed him.

Their mouths met hungrily, their passionate reunion a foregone conclusion the moment their dæmons laid eyes on each other in the common room hours ago, relief leaking into each other’s mouths as they let all pretences slough away and melted into each other.

He knew that if they fucked on the sofa she’d dress and leave afterwards, so when she’d climbed into his lap, her hips grinding against his so hard it chafed, he pushed himself up from the settee and carried her into the bedroom, their dæmons close behind. She hooked her ankles behind his back and clutched him to her, her tongue vicious and probing in his mouth, and as he held her by the underside of her thighs the feel of her lithe hamstrings made him groan. He dropped her on the bed and climbed on top of her, pressing her into the mattress until she gasped, nuzzling her hair and kissing her neck as she unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it from his shoulders.

They’d been sparring all evening, them and their dæmons both, and they soon found themselves entwined combatively on the bed, Asriel’s teeth resting on her shoulder, about to bite, Marisa’s nails on his back, ready to create rivulets of blood that would smart for days. Stelmaria had the monkey in her jaws, but the golden creature’s hands were sunk into her fur, braced to grab and twist. Every member of their tryst was poised for pain, both to inflict and receive.

He wasn’t sure who flipped the script first. He replaced his teeth with the soft pads of his lips and pressed kisses to her skin, while she let her nails skate gently over the strong muscles of his back, so pleasant that he shivered. Stelmaria dropped the monkey and then clutched him to her breast, and his little black fingers drew soft patterns in her fur instead, the leopard releasing a deep rumble of pleasure. An unspoken, impermanent truce had been agreed between them, and as he sank into her body, his hands caressing her smooth skin, her hot mouth kissing his cheeks, his lips, his neck, it felt impossible that anything but pleasure could ever be shared between them, so tender was their coupling. The time melted away as they lay together, and when they finally succumbed to sleep, she was slotted against his body as if they were made to tesselate like this, and his nose was buried in her neck, so that her perfume suffused his dreams.

She was gone when he woke up; to be expected, of course, but no less of a sting. The sun streamed across the room through a slit in the drapes, a shard of light piercing his eyelids and making him wince, and as his eyes fluttered open, they were greeted only by empty space. He rolled over and placed a hand where her warm body had been just hours before: now, the sheets were cold. The only sign that she’d been there at all was the scent of her perfume wafting up from the pillow, liquorice and sweet vanilla, the scent of a candy shop, each molecule worth swooning over until you realise your enamel is riddled with rot. He laid his head on the pillowcase and took a deep breath in, her smell soothing his racing heart, an unfortunate side effect of the drinks he’d glugged the night before. Stelmaria padded over from the foot of the bed and laid in the empty space, her eyes drifting closed again as Asriel’s hand began to rake through her fur.

When he sat up, he felt a sharp stab at his temple, and at once the hangover made him feel every minute of his age. Stelmaria was already clambering down off the bed. “There’s acetaminophen in the bag,” she murmured and he nodded, thumping back onto the pillow with a groan and closing his eyes.

They snapped open against a moment later when Stelmaria called his name. “Asriel!”

He leapt from the bed and padded into the main room, wincing as the bright spring sunlight flooded his vision. “What is it?”

“Your bag was on the floor. Now it’s on the chair.”

His stomach clenched. “Oh, fuck,” he said, unclasping the rucksack’s buckles and rifling through his belongings. Most of his possessions were left untouched, but a thick stack of papers was missing: the early draft of his new paper, which he’d hastily scrawled on the boat back from Trollesund, each one of his theories elucidated and evidenced and hers for the taking.

He stood there for a moment, the bag held in one shaking hand, the other clenched into a fist. Then he hurled the bag onto the floor with a roar, so loud that even Stelmaria flinched. “ _Fuck_ ,” he bellowed, then stalked over to the desk and swept the items onto the floor with a snarl. “Fuck!”

Stelmaria sat stolidly, her ears flat against her head. “There aren’t that many airships on Sundays,” she said. “She might not have boarded yet.”

He looked at his dæmon, his eyes dark and wild with fury. “Yes. Yes,” he said, stalking into the bedroom and dressing in yesterday’s clothes. It hardly took him a minute to pack his things, and then he was wrenching the door open with his quivering hand, ready to tear through the college in a rage.

He stopped at the unexpected sight of Lyra before him.

“Lyra? What are you doing here?”

She was beaming at him, one hand outstretched as if she’d been about to turn the doorknob and barge into the room. “Are you coming for breakfast?”

“No,” he growled. “I’m leaving.”

Her face fell. “But you’ve only just arrived!”

“Get out of my way, child.”

She crossed her arms. “No.”

He pressed a fist to his head. “Move, or I’ll make you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Go on.”

He let the trunk fall to the floor with a smack and slotted his hands under her arms. Then he lifted her into the air, his arms outstretched to stop her flailing feet reaching his thighs or abdomen, and dropped her unceremoniously to the side with a grunt. The obstacle now removed from his path, he picked up his case and started down the corridor.

“You’re always gonna disappoint me, en’t you?”

He stopped short and blinked, truly wondering if her words were a cruel hallucination, spat from another mouth. “What did you say?” he said, spinning on his heel and stalking back to her.

He was towering above her, and her voice wavered as she continued. “Mrs Coulter said that you’ll always disappoint me. She said it’s what you’re best at.” 

“When did she say that?” His hands were shaking with rage.

“When we was having the chocolatl, before you got here.” As she spoke, Pantalaimon became a small monkey, pale yellow rather than vibrant gold, but the effect was enough to make him snap. He looked at Lyra, the child they had forged together, and felt a deep sear in his chest. He placed a hand on Stelmaria’s head to steady himself.

“You will not speak to me that way, Lyra,” he snarled at her. Pantalaimon became an ermine and huddled into her chest as she backed away from him. “Do you understand, you ungrateful thing? I will not tolerate this insolence.”

Her voice was trembling now, but her haughty expression was one he knew intimately. “Mrs Coulter said – ”

“Listen to me,” he said, grabbing Lyra’s chin and tilting her head up so she couldn’t look away. “You can’t trust a word that woman says. She’s a viper.”

“What’s a vip – ”

“A venomous snake.” He squeezed Lyra’s chin until she squirmed. “Deadly.”

“You’re hurting me – ”

“I don’t care,” he snapped. “Forget her, Lyra.”

“I won’t,” she said stubbornly, trying to turn away, but forced to remain in place by his vice grip. “I’ll never forget her, as long as I live. She’s the best person I ever met.”

He let her go and Lyra scrambled away, rubbing her chin. “I hate you,” she spat, then stalked away, her boots slapping against the weathered floorboards.

“Lyra!” he shouted, but she’d already turned the corner and disappeared.

He turned and slammed the side of his fist into the wall, releasing a groan. Stelmaria stood beside him. “Take a breath, Asriel,” she said, and he did. Then he picked up his case and hurtled towards the college’s main gate, his fingers twitching with fury.

He reached the porter’s lodge and was about to stalk onto Turl Street when a sentence caught his ear. “Delivery for Lyra Belacqua.”

He stopped. “What is it?” he said, walking over to the man.

“I’m sorry, sir, but this package is for a Lyra.”

“I’m her uncle,” he said impatiently. “Lord Asriel Belacqua.”

The postman glanced at the porter, who nodded. “Alright. Sign here, please.”

He signed for the package and then tore it open, oblivious to the porter’s glare. As his eyes roved over the box’s contents, he felt his anger dissipating, a great balloon deflating, a deep ache taking its place. Someone had sent Lyra several soft dresses, a pile of children’s books, and a shiny pair of black patent shoes. He sifted through the package, noting a book on arctic animals, a children’s guide to celestial geography, a picture book about the Sámi people who lived permanently in the far north, and a set of fairy stories, complete with delicate illustrations. At the bottom of the items was a note. _For Lyra_ , it read, though it had been left unsigned.

He stood for a moment, his thumb swiping over the cursive on the card, disturbed only when the porter gave a light cough. “Shall I take that up to Miss Lyra’s bedroom, sir?” he asked.

Asriel gave him a bland stare. “No,” he said, after a moment. “I’ll do it.” He looked down at the gifts one more time, his hand briefly stroking the soft velvet of one of the dresses. “Call me a cab to the train station,” he said wearily. “Have it here in five minutes.”

“Very good, my lord.”

He left his cases in the lodge and then transported the box to Lyra’s bedroom at pace. He dumped the gifts on the desk and turned to leave, two minutes left until he wanted to be speeding away from this godforsaken morning in a cab. He was about to close the door when a thought occurred to him, and before he had time to interrogate it, he’d stalked back in and rifled through Lyra’s few drawers, pulling the Tartar knife out with a flourish. He had to admit that the blade was much bigger and sharper than he remembered. He ran his index finger briefly over the handle’s intricate carvings, then slotted the weapon into his coat and took the stairs two at a time, Stelmaria at his heels.

That evening, back in London, Asriel was sitting at his desk and nursing a whiskey, trying desperately to recreate the early draft of his paper, the knife lying beside his notebook.

Stelmaria was stretched out like a Sphinx at his feet. “She didn’t know you’d be there,” she said, and Asriel frowned at her.

“Yes, she made that abundantly clear,” he muttered. “So?”

“So she wasn’t there to steal your work.”

“She’s always been an opportunist,” he said absentmindedly, scrawling down another recalled sentence. “What’s your point?”

“I think she truly came to see the girl.”

He sighed, his eyes sliding to the knife. “So what if she did?”

“Perhaps your ire is misplaced.”

“Never,” he said, another flash of analysis coming back to him, his pencil scurrying across the paper. He paused. “She’ll go back again, won’t she? She won’t be able to stay away now.”

Stelmaria sighed. “I don’t know.”

“You saw the way she looked at Lyra – ”

“What I saw,” Stelmaria interrupted, “is two people who cannot bear to look at Lyra.” Asriel froze, and said nothing. Stelmaria sighed. “You are as bad as each other, you know,” she said, yawning and resting her head on the ground. 

He tapped his pencil against the paper a few times, and then stood up sharply from his chair. He rifled through the room’s myriad drawers and found a thick brown envelope and a sheet of cloth, then wrapped the knife in the material and slid it into the paper casing. He wrote her address on the outside and was about to seal it with wax when he paused, a thought springing to his mind. He searched through the drawers of his desk until he found a suitable piece of card, wrote two words on it, and then slipped the note into the package and sealed it with aplomb, the Belacqua crest vivid in the red wax of the seal.

She opened the envelope several days later in her apartment, the monkey perched on the back of her chair, a ragged breath torn from her chest as she held the ornate carved handle in her hand and examined the blade. It was the monkey who searched the rest of the envelope, Marisa’s mind already focused on the knife, and his baleful eyes softened as he passed her the card.

 _For Marisa_ , it read. She held the card in her manicured fingers, swept her thumb across his familiar scrawl, and smiled. 

**Author's Note:**

> Everything I write at the moment spirals out of control. Let me know if all those extra hours at my laptop were worth it!


End file.
